POV: HELENA IVYRA.
I crossed the street with slow steps, observing every detail of the building's simple facade. Now that I was closer, I realized how rudimentary everything there was.
Blue and white, divided by a discreet red line. From a distance, one might confuse it with a French consulate. After all, the color palette was identical, but up close, it revealed itself to be modest.
A small canopy protected the entrance, and beside it, a flowerbed with succulents and a large tree that cast a shadow on a corner of the sidewalk.
In front of me, the building stood like a stubborn survivor of a forgotten era. The sky was covered with gray clouds that drifted like ancient veils over the buildings. Some lights in the square were still on, even during the day. A mistake by the city hall, probably…
As I approached the entrance, I noticed the double door wide open, a cozy mat in front. I took a few more steps and then — BAM!
And someone bumped into me sideways, unintentionally, I took two steps back, surprised, trying to compose myself.
"Oh! I'm sorry, I…"
The man didn't even look at me. He walked past me with a firm step and a bitter expression.
"I don't have money to hire prostitutes at this hour," he growled, without even turning his face.
I was slightly paralyzed and scared. The words fell like stones.
It took me a few seconds to process what I had just heard.
"What…?" I murmured, my mouth still agape.
I looked in his direction. He was already walking away, crossing the double door. He wore a dark, crumpled overcoat. But what really caught attention were the greenish stains on his skin, especially on his hands and neck. It wasn't makeup. Not shadow. It was… strange.
I raised an eyebrow, uncomfortable. Whatever he was, or thought he was, he definitely didn't know how to treat someone.
"Besides being rude, he looked like he came out of an RPG glitch," I grumbled, trying to shake off the discomfort.
I took a deep breath, shook off the malaise, and entered the library.
The interior was an immediate relief. The air carried that scent only places with history possess: a mixture of old furniture, soft dust, old paint, and books. Many books.
The first floor was welcoming, even with its simplicity. Some round tables occupied strategic points of the hall, surrounded by tall, heavy shelves. In the background, five corridors of books stretched out like the corridors of a literary temple, each shelf guarding fragments of ideas, worlds, and the secrets of a lot of stories.
On the side walls, small thematic sections completed the space with charm: temporary collections, children's books, academic journals, forgotten literature. I discreetly counted the visitors.
Perhaps seven or eight people, scattered among tables and shelves. Some in absolute silence, others whispering or writing.
I saw the wooden staircase leading to the second floor. Upstairs, the space changed. It was a sea of shelves. The layout was denser, almost labyrinthine. Colored labels indicated genres, topics, and eras: Classic Fiction, Technical Enchantments, Literomagical Theory, QP History. All well-organized, despite the tired appearance.
There were fewer people there than downstairs. I counted five or six readers, based on the faint traces of energy emanating from them, each immersed in their own universe, eyes glued to pages or screens.
I turned and walked to the entrance counter. Rose was there.
The librarian remained the same as ever, as if time had simply decided to respect her. She wore glasses with thin metal frames and a tight bun that defied gravity. Her expression was calm, but there was always a sparkle in her eyes. As if she knew more than she showed.
"Good morning, Rose," I said cheerfully, despite the strange encounter just now.
"Helena! You here again? I thought you'd migrated to digital," she commented, with a knowing smile.
"Never completely. I came on a kind of mission today. I'm looking for books on Authorial Dominators... the classics. More theoretical concepts, if possible," I replied, consulting the notebook on the desk, where a small summary of the sections was kept.
She pursed her lips, thoughtful, and slowly spun her chair to an old card catalog drawer.
"Let's see... Hmm. There's good stuff in the Literomagical Theory section, second floor, corridor C. There's also a new compilation that came back from restoration this week: Fundamentals of the Belief Principle. I think you'll like it, it should be in the collection section at the end of corridor C," Rose said, frowning, indicating she was trying to recall the correct information.
"You always save my day, Rose," I said, quickly jotting down the corridor and the book title.
"Just returning the favor. And don't forget to register the book, okay?" she said with a sincere smile, closing the file and returning to her old chair.
I nodded with a smile and went up to the second floor. Corridor C was silent and located in the furthest corner of the library. It overlooked a residential street in the back. The shelves there were taller, older.
The wooden floor creaked with every step, as if the library was talking to me. I walked through the corridors.
The number of people was similar to what I had counted before, perhaps a little less than ten. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the strange man again, but I decided to avoid any contact.
When I finally reached Corridor C, I looked among the titles and found two books that caught my attention.
The first: The Pen and the Arch: The Rise of the First DAs).
The synopsis said something like:
"A historical analysis of the first known authors capable of linking magic to writing. There are diagrams, forgotten names, and primary formulas of lyrical activation. The book argues that the first DAs were not writers in the classical sense, but people who recorded enchantments through symbols."
The second: The Power of Names: An Essay on Writing as Domination.
This one was denser. It approached writing as an ontological tool, the idea that, by naming something, the author created its existence.
'A principle similar to the "creating word" in ancient religions, or the "true name" in Shadow Slave.'
There were passages that related this concept to QP, as an extension of the textual soul.
I took both to a table in the corner, near the window. The world outside seemed distant now. There was only paper, silence, and knowledge. I opened the first book and, before starting to read, realized I still hadn't found what Rose had mentioned. Maybe it was further down the corridor...
'I'll look better later.'
I started reading and deeply immersed myself in a state of concentration. With each page, I felt as if I was walking deeper into the spiral that was the Author's Dilemma. Creation, belief, originality, power.
The idea that writers were not just storytellers, but shapers of them. Every story had both a natural and an artificial narrative simultaneously.
The author was almost a god in fictional worlds. But, in historical records, there was no author in the classical sense, there was the register, the one who noted down events.
Could this register be considered an Authorial Dominator?
"By concept, no. After all, he didn't create the story, he merely transmitted it. But, still, he was the one who put it into words," I pondered, connecting the ideas. Indeed, the author who recorded facts had power similar to a Dominator Author over fiction.
If, for example, a writer described the Vikings as good Samaritans, our ideas about them today would be completely different.
How do we know what really happened?
Do we consider multiple authors?
Do we organize the records narratively?
"Interesting question... Well, I'm in the best place to find an answer to that. Let's continue reading!"